


Time Is Losing Us

by JennaCupcakes



Series: We Can All Still Burn Our Fingers [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1848, AU, Gen, another revolution another country, some Büchner quoting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're nearing their own revolution faster than anticipated. Some of them get beaten up, and others just get excited over other countries' revolutions. Some manage both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Is Losing Us

**Author's Note:**

> Again, this hasn't been beta-read. This time, we have more plot and less Christmas trees, as promised.
> 
> Please point out historical inaccuracies. I did my best.

_January 1848_

“The revolution is beginning without us!”

Bahorel was out of breath by the time he caught up with his friends. The snow on the riverbank had made the ground slippery, and he’d tripped twice, which was why there was mud all over his face and clothes now, but he couldn’t care less.

“What on earth has gotten into you?”

Courfeyrac looked at him with an amused quirk of his mouth that barely missed becoming a full-blown laugh. Joly simply looked horrified. “Bahorel, you’re...”

“Who cares if I catch a cold?” Bahorel growled without waiting for Joly to finish his sentence. “ _The revolution is beginning without us!_ ”

“From the beginning, please,” Courfeyrac insisted. He and Joly were both wrapped up to their ears in coats and scarves and hats for their stroll along the Spree, but apparently Bahorel had not been informed of the freezing temperatures – no really, it was freezing, ice was covering most of the river, glittering in the light of the early morning – and had decided to wear nothing more than his regular shirt and a waistcoat, and a scarf that looked like one of Feuilly’s. Well, Feuilly wouldn’t be pleased.

“Word just arrived from Italy,” he said, still panting faintly, “The people are standing up in Sicily and in the North. _How come those goddamn Italians beat us to it_?”

“Bahorel, we should really get you inside,” Joly noted with a concerned frown. There was a heavy wind, and Bahorel was shaking without realising it. The proximity of the water took another few degrees of the already freezing temperature. “Then you can tell us about what happened in Italy.”

“Hmpf, ‘m fine,” Bahorel muttered, “I have to tell Enjolras and Combeferre; Bossuet said you’d know where they are.”

Joly made a noise of surprise. “You ran here from the apartment? The entire way? Because you were afraid of missing the revolution?”

Courfeyrac seemed similarly impressed, even though he didn’t pass up the opportunity for a friendly jab at Bahorel. “Seems as if your infinitely grand talent for inspiring riots wasn’t enough to be faster than the Italians. Shame on you, Bahorel, we were all relying on you!”

Bahorel stuck his tongue out at him. He was less of a child than Courfeyrac in his manners, but sometimes the only way of communicating his message was to adopt the other’s childish ways – at least that was how he saw it. “So, do you know where Enjolras and Combeferre are or don’t you?”

 Courfeyrac scratched his head. “There’s no meeting today, which means you’ll probably find them in the library. Despite all their enthusiasm for the revolution there are exams they have to pass, you know?”

Bahorel seemed content like a cat lying on warm, dark cobblestone in the sun, if his toothy grin was anything to go by. “I am incredibly glad to have decided not to take this path,” he declared and offered his arm to Joly mockingly. “Would you do me the honour of escorting me to the library?”

Joly was stumbling away from him so fast that he fell backwards and almost landed in the river. Had it not been for Courfeyrac’s swift grab for his friend’s arm, he would have landed, screaming and splashing, in the dark brown water of the Spree.

“Moron,” Joly mumbled when he had calmed himself once more. Bahorel only laughed, crossed his arms and followed his friends at an idle pace.

The prospect of revolution did wonders for his temper.

—Ψ—

_February 1848_

“The people of France have reclaimed the power!”

“Sh, it’s okay,” Combeferre whispered in a calming voice.

“They got rid of their king!”

“Would you just stay still for five minutes?” Joly cursed angrily.

“This is a sign, can’t you see it? A sign for all those longing for freedom!”

“Enjolras, I swear by Bavarian wheat beer and everything else that is holy to me, if you don’t stop moving right now, I will get Bahorel to tie you to this bed until Joly has taken care of all of your wounds!”

Enjolras did indeed stay still at the sound of Grantaire’s voice booming through the room with a strangely authoritative ring to it. Joly sighed, and resumed dabbing at his friends cuts and bruises with a cloth soaked in the strongest alcohol Grantaire could find. Which was... pretty strong.

“You know, maybe you should have know that it wouldn’t exactly be a good idea to announce your happiness over the revolution in France in a tavern full of Prussian officers,” Joly commented sarcastically, and Enjolras winced at the burn of the alcohol in yet another wound.

“It was hardly my fault--” he began, but was shut up as Grantaire shoved a drink in his free hand, the one that currently wasn’t being held by Joly to clean a cut in his palm.

“This’ll help with the pain,” he announced with a solemn nod.

Enjolras managed an irritated frown despite the pain. “You know I don’t drink.”

Grantaire shrugged, took the drink from Enjolras before he could say anything else, and downed it himself. He only winced slightly at the sharp sting of alcohol burning the cut on his lip. “Your loss.”

“Really, though,” Courfeyrac chimed in from the back of the room, “You’ve had better plans, Enjolras. And a bar brawl? Really not your style...”

“I was _reading_ a _letter_ ,” Enjolras replied pointedly, “and then one of the officers caught a glimpse of it and must have drawn the wrong conclusions at the word _revolution_.”

“Or the right one,” Courfeyrac replied, “I mean, we do plan to start a revolution.”

“That still wasn’t what the letter was about,” Enjolras grumbled, but had to cut his argument short when Joly poured a liberal amount of alcohol over a deep cut on his arm. Out of the five of them, Enjolras looked the worst, even though they probably wouldn’t even have made it out of the tavern if it hadn’t been for Grantaire. And the only punch he’d taken had been one to the lip, one that he was currently nursing with expensive Scottish whiskey his friends had gotten him for Christmas.

“No, but you were still reading a letter about the revolution in France smiling like you were getting an early Christmas present, and one of those pompous idiots decided to get nosy. You know how they are.”

Combeferre’s words were spoken gravely, but not reprimanding. He felt the same sort of joy Enjolras did, but also the same sort of dread.

How could they know if the idea of revolution had already taken root here?

There was a knock on the door just as Joly reached for the first bandage to wrap around Enjolras’ hand.

“Who’s there?” Enjolras called. There was a brief moment of silence where they all feared that the police had found them, and all eyes regarded the door with a sense of dreadful anticipation.

“It’s us,” a breathless Feuilly called, and Courfeyrac quickly got up to answer the door. Feuilly and Bahorel were standing in the doorway, looking dishevelled, out of breath, and thoroughly delighted.

Feuilly blinked at the number of people in the room. “Can we come in?”

Courfeyrac nodded and made room for them, although it was indeed getting very crowded in Enjolras tiny flat. The two newcomers would have to sit on the floor for the lack of chairs.

“We have news!” Enjolras called from the bed he had been forced to lie on.

“We’ve heard about France already,” Feuilly answered, “But that’s not why we came here.”

Bahorel handed him a letter that had already been folded many times by the looks of it, loopy handwriting on cheap brown paper, hastily written in an effort to get word out as fast as possible.

“Mannheim has called to an assembly of the people. The German people have begun their march to freedom.”

The smile on his face was radiant.

There was a silence that followed his words, a stunned, unbelieving silence of trying to understand what had been said. They looked at each other hesitantly, slowly breaking out into smiles themselves, until Enjolras gently pushed Joly off, got up and walked over to Feuilly to see the letter for himself.

“When was this written?” he asked, and the tension in the room was so heavy that no one dared to move.

“Yesterday,” Feuilly replied, “A friend of mine rode all the way from Mannheim.”

Enjolras ran a hand through his hair. “This is good news.”

“I thought you would be disappointed about not being the first to form a parliament of the people,” Courfeyrac laughed, “Why so patient all of a sudden?”

“Not patient,” Enjolras replied, “Pleased.”

He turned to Feuilly again. “What are their demands? Have we any information on whom they’re siding with?”

Feuilly quickly scanned the letter again. “Liberals, mostly. Their goal is a parliament, and that as soon as possible.”

“We have to go to Mannheim,” Enjolras stated decidedly. That was when Combeferre stepped in.

“Give it a day or two. You’re needed here for the revolution.”

He put a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder, and Enjolras let himself be guided back to the bed by Combeferre to let Joly finish wrapping his cuts. “It’s going to be a long way,” he said, “before we can call this a nation. This is only the beginning. Our time will come.”

Nobody caught Grantaire in the corner whispering. “I hope to God you’re ready for it... or we’ll have rolling heads by the dozen here, too.”

—Ψ—

_5 th March 1848_

“Has anybody seen Bahorel and Grantaire?”

Joly’s and Bossuet’s apartment was the third one Courfeyrac knocked on, but to no avail.

“Not since the meeting two days ago,” Joly replied with a shrug, and Bossuet called from behind him, “They’ve probably found that wine shop I told them about. Or they’re out fighting. Don’t strain yourself worrying.”

“This is not good,” Courfeyrac muttered.

“Why are you looking for them, anyway?” Joly asked, raising his eyebrows.

Courfeyrac ran a hand through his hair and shifted his weight from one foot to another. “Combeferre thinks we have a reason to get nervous. There have been uprisings in Karlsruhe and Munich. Uprisings could start here any second. I just want to make sure that we’re all together when the storm hits.”

Joly’s mouth formed a quiet _O_. “I see,” he said, “I’ll see if I can find out where they’re off to.”

Courfeyrac half-smiled, evidently glad for the support. “Stay safe,” he said before he left to head back to Enjolras’ apartment.

—Ψ—

_6 th March 1848_

“They’ve established a temporary parliament in Heidelberg.”

Courfeyrac, Enjolras and Combeferre had stayed up the entire night, which was why they greeted this morning and especially Enjolras’ exclamation with less enthusiasm than both deserved.

“I am very much in favour of that,” Courfeyrac muttered, his head resting on top of some books he had been attempting to read instead of dozing off.

“Who are they inviting?” Combeferre asked, getting up as Enjolras entered with the letter in his hand. The shadows under his eyes were dark, but he seemed alert – he always did, somehow.

“Professors... Journalists... Lawyers... you get the idea,” Enjolras replied, his eyes fixed on the letter, “It’s not really coordinated, the representation seems to be a mess, Hessen got 84 seats and Austria two...”

“Who will blame them,” Courfeyrac mused with a groggy sigh, “We all know this isn’t going to work with Austria included.”

“This is about the principle of political representation!” Enjolras countered, “Well, at least it seems they’re preparing for a National Assembly.”

“Where are they meeting?” Combeferre inquired.

“Frankfurt,” Enjolras replied visibly annoyed, “It’s too far to get there in time. We will have to aid the revolution in another way.”

“There was still no revolution here,” Courfeyrac pointed out, and added with a hint of mockery, “King Friedrich Wilhelm is still sitting on his throne, and we’re sitting here idly. When are we going to _do_ something?”

Combeferre was just about to calm him when the cobblestone hit the window, and the glass shattered into pieces.

The three friends stood in stunned silence.

“What on earth was that?”

Courfeyrac was the first to move again, and he went to look out of the window. There were people on the street, mostly students, marching with banners in their hands, shouting and throwing stones. Courfeyrac’s throat went dry, and he had to swallow several times before he could speak again.

“It would seem the revolution has begun without us.”

Combeferre and Enjolras stepped behind him to see for themselves, and both reacted with the same mixture of shock and disbelief he had felt himself.

—Ψ—

The riots had run out of steam until midday, and Courfeyrac, Enjolras and Combeferre stayed inside for the fear of being arrested by officers cleaning up after the students on the streets. By now it was clear to them that they had to act, and that fast.

They were in the middle of discussing a second, more organised riot, when there was a knock at the door.

Enjolras went to open it carefully, only to find Grantaire and Bahorel leaning against his doorframe. Courfeyrac jumped up at the sight of them. “I’ve been looking for you almost the entire last night! Where have you been?”

Grantaire had a black eye and his nose was bleeding. Bahorel looked even worse, with a bleeding wound on his forehead and a split lip. The wound matched the still red scar on Grantaire’s lip from the bar fight a little more than a week ago.

“We might have accidentally started a little revolution,” Grantaire laughed, “I’m sorry, Enjolras, but we beat you to it.”

Bahorel elbowed him, and Grantaire winced in pain. “Don’t listen to him, Enjolras, we were behaving just fine until that officer marched into the tavern.”

“What did he do?” Combeferre asked.

“Breathing, for once,” Grantaire answered with a laugh that was accompanied by a painful hiss, “And also supporting the Prussian monarchy, but that was secondary.”

Bahorel joined in his laugh. “They were all just waiting for someone to say something, and then he went to the bar and kinda shoved that one guy aside and Grantaire went up to him and said _excuse me, Sir, you can’t do stuff like that_ , and then he knocks him out.”

“Well, of course he had friends waiting for him,” Grantaire continued, “Colleagues, and after that, things got pretty ugly and before we knew it, we were out on the street shouting _down with the king_ and whatnot.”

He looked at Enjolras. “It’s quite a lot of fun, actually, I can understand why you would want to lead a revolution.”

“You are... _mad_!” Courfeyrac didn’t know what else to say. “We’re going to need Joly to patch you up again. You’re both bleeding!”

“That’s not the point of our revolution,” Enjolras muttered coldly, almost to himself, but Grantaire caught it nevertheless.

“You could always enlighten me, you know.”

Whatever the leader’s reaction to this was, it got lost between Courfeyrac fussing over the both of them bleeding and Combeferre rushing to fetch Joly. Courfeyrac made them both sit down, got them drinks and did his best to clean the wounds until the doctor arrived. Enjolras was sitting in a corner all the while, staring at the shattered window pensively.

When Courfeyrac left him alone for a minute, Grantaire uttered a court laugh. “He is afraid his chance for greatness has passed him by,” he said with a nod in the direction of Enjolras, “And now he can’t find another way to die young and heroically.”

Enjolras was close to snapping. “This has nothing to do with--”

But Courfeyrac cut him short. “Don’t listen to him, he’s concussed, as far as I can tell. Now just leave him alone until Joly shows up.”

—Ψ—

_17 th March 1848_

Marius joined them that night, in their quiet conspiring in an almost deserted tavern, where the beer was bad and the food even worse, but that offered the luxury of privacy. They were all there, the entire group of friends, and excitement was buzzing between them like never before.

“Technically, Hungary has become its own state now,” Feuilly explained excitedly to anyone who would listen, “I mean, there’s still some way to go, but it must be a sign! We cannot fail now!”

The evening had been marked by the news that a proclamation of reformations was to be read by the king the following day, and none of them had wanted to spend this possibly historical evening alone.

“Feuilly, it is most definitely a sign,” Enjolras agreed. He looked better now, his wounds had almost all healed and faded back into nothingness, and the prospect of change made him look more radiant than ever. “A sign that no tyrant or unjust government will prevail over the will of the people. And tomorrow, this will prove itself also true for our country.”

“Metternich has retired,” Combeferre agreed, “The symbol of restoration and oppression has left us, who is there to stop us now?”

The students murmured in agreement, raising their drinks and toasting to tomorrow.

“Wilhelm has seen that we will not be deceived by his poor attempts to shut us up. Ministries of March, indeed, only that all of Germany will be a ministry, and its ministers will do more than fill those demands that suit the king best. It is time he understood that he cannot stop us.”

“The power of the people and the power of reason are one,” added a voice from the back, and Enjolras nodded enthusiastically. “We will build a democracy that rules out all the injustices of this petty system of princes and their little kingdoms. By uniting the people, we will make our country strong.”

Had he been listening more closely, he would have recognised the voice of Grantaire, and his addition to his little interjection. “Too bad the people don’t have the power yet.”

“But what does unity mean?” Marius called from his table, “Have we thought about that?”

“It means that all those who feel German at heart will come together as a nation,” Enjolras replied, and frowned when Marius added, “But what about Austria?”

“You can’t be serious!” Courfeyrac called, “Austria?”

“This wouldn’t work,” Enjolras said determinedly, “Austria is a different country. We value them as partners, but not as part of our country.”

He gave Marius no chance to argue, instead turned away and sat down next to Combeferre. “Have we any idea how this will go tomorrow?” he asked quietly.

Combeferre’s frown spoke more plainly than his words. “We can hope,” he said, “Even a king supported by a military such as his can only rule against the will of the people for so long.”

“I do not want to put them in danger,” Enjolras explained, keeping his voice barely above a whisper, and Combeferre nodded.

“They all know that,” he assured Enjolras, “but they also chose to be here, despite the dangers they might have to face. They all have a mind of their own, and a voice to say no.”

Enjolras nodded and got up to fill his glass with water once more, when someone caught his arm. He looked up, and found Grantaire looking at him with a pained expression.

“People will be dying, Enjolras,” he said, “before your revolution is over, people will be dying, and you will be there to regret it.”

“If you don’t want to be here, get out,” Enjolras replied angrily, not quite catching the tone of concern behind the cutting edge of Grantaire’s cynicism.

Grantaire smiled bitterly at Enjolras words. “What do I care if I should die from a revolution or the plague?”

**Author's Note:**

> "Time is losing us." (Georg Büchner, Dantons Tod)
> 
> “The power of the people and the power of reason are one." (Georg Büchner, possibly from Der Hessische Landbote, but I could be wrong)
> 
> What do I care if I should die from a revolution or the plague?” (Georg Büchner, Dantons Tod)


End file.
